An Unforgettable Pick-Me-Up
by genetic.design
Summary: In which Gabriel is sleep deprived and consumes way too much caffeine, and it leads to a most interesting result.


**Notes:** For some silly reason, not all of the breaks in this are showing up, even though I've gone back and put them in four times now. So wherever you see **X X X** , that's where the new part starts.

* * *

" _It was the heat of the moment_ —"

Oh god, no.

"— _the moment shone in your eyes_."

Gabriel scrambles out of the chair, sending a partially finished rough draft for this month's English essay — comparing Middle-Earth and Wonderland: Tolkien versus Lewis Carroll, and what the fuck had he been thinking, picking a topic like that — fluttering to the floor in his haste to reach the alarm blaring on his nightstand. A minor altercation between his foot and a discarded pair of jeans by his bed later, he slaps the awful song out of existence.

In the sweet, blissful silence, he wonders when the hell he set his morning playlist to cheesy 80's rock music. Or, better yet, what happened to the usual Pink Floyd, because he most certainly doesn't remember downloading any fucking Asia. Then he spots it — the iPod plugged into the clock's docking station, in all its hideous, lime green glory.

"Luke," he growls, ripping the device from the alarm. Temptation to chunk the damn thing out the window strikes hard. Serve his bastard of a brother right, honestly, for hooking it up in the first place.

With a snarl of pure frustration, Gabriel tosses the iPod onto his roommate's bed, vowing to replace all of Luke's Casa Erotica videos with the filthiest, kinkiest gay porn he can get his hands on. Petty, maybe, but his back aches from passing out at his desk, and pain makes him the tiniest bit vindictive.

Besides, getting jarred awake by _Asia_ after a single, crummy hour of sleep demands retribution of the highest magnitude. Seriously, nobody wants to wake up to that. Nobody.

 **X X X**

The very idea of braving the morning's first class without coffee sustenance makes him cringe. Unfortunately, the detour to the university's cafeteria dissolves from ' _five minutes, no big deal_ ' into something more along the lines of a half-formed plot for premeditated murder.

Justifiable homicide is a thing. A delayed caffeine fix sounds like a pretty damn good reason to him. No sympathetic judge or jury can dare to convict him if he stands up and pleads, "You see, I'm a student at the local university, and I needed my grande mocha latte with three shots of espresso and extra whip before class. I needed it bad, but the dick in front of me just would not make up his mind, so I snapped. Total accident."

Aggravated beyond all belief, Gabriel elbows his way past the sole customer, cutting off the protest with a dirty look. "Sorry, buddy, but your inability to pick a drink is bordering on ridiculous."

Slapping his palms onto the counter, he ignores the incredulous expression on the barista's face. "I'm desperate," he says. "I don't even have time for my usual today. So I'll take whatever's quick, a regular size black coffee, I don't care. Put it in the biggest cup you have and gimme a Monster. And a five hour energy shot."

Tossing down a handful of bills, he tells the girl to keep the change and shoves the energy drinks in his backpack. Snatching the insulated cup from the barista the moment she snaps the lid in place, he rushes out of the cafeteria, swearing when he checks his phone and realises his English class began eight minutes ago.

Please let there have been some sort of freak accident, like the classroom burning to the ground overnight.

Gabriel full on sprints down the hallway, all the way across campus to the correct building, and jesus, he doesn't get why some people consider exercise an enjoyable activity. At least he hasn't spilled his coffee.

Panting, he skids to a stop in front of the classroom's door to peer through the window. Shit. No signs of arson anywhere. The professor seems occupied with writing on the board, though, so maybe he can make it to his seat without being noticed. Pretend like he was there the whole time. Not his finest plan, perhaps, but in the face of such limited options, it's at least worth a shot.

Slowly, he edges the door open enough to slip through, and with the caution one might reserve for handling a ticking bomb, inches it shut behind him. A handful of students glance up at the soft click the latch makes when it catches, and he winces as they smirk at him. Traitors.

"So nice of you to join us, Mr. Milton," Professor Shurley says, not bothering to turn around. Eyes in the back of his damn head, maybe, because hey, other people are just as capable of being tardy on a constant basis as Gabriel.

The list on the whiteboard gets a cursory inspection, and oh, yuck. Famous writers from the Romantic period. He should have ditched.

"Sorry, sir, had a bit of a late one last night," Gabriel quips, lacing his voice with as much innuendo as he can muster. After a slight pause, he adds, "If you know what I mean," along with an eyebrow waggle for good measure. In truth, he pulled an hours long cram session, but he'd sooner die than admit that studious activity aloud. With a reputation like his to uphold — renowned party master, prank god extraordinaire — honesty is far from the best policy here.

Professor Shurley sighs as the classroom breaks out into laughter. "Yes, thank you for leaving your nighttime ventures up for interpretation, as always. Take your seat, please." Waving his free hand at the empty desk, the instructor adds another name to the list in an almost illegible scrawl. How the guy managed to score a job teaching college level English with that atrocious penmanship, Gabriel will never understand.

Dropping into his chair, he leans back and stretches, shoving his fist against his mouth to stifle a wide yawn. In an attempt to fight off his exhaustion, he takes a tentative sip of coffee, which rewards him with a burnt tongue. Waiting for it to cool, he debates pulling out a spiral, or even his textbook, but settles for fixing the ceiling with an unfocused gaze instead. Too tired to care about the melodramatic, scandalous affair that was Lord Byron's life, he deems counting the tiles overhead way more fascinating.

"Where have you been?" comes a quiet hiss from his side.

Propping an elbow on the desk, he rests his cheek in his hand, shooting his friend a lazy smile. "Heya, Samsquatch. Mind if I borrow your notes later? Barely holding my eyes open right now."

Sam sighs in a long suffering sort of way, but he nods as he darkens in a large bullet point with blue ink. Changing the pen out for a black one, he jots down the name Washington Irving in neat, careful print. A third colour, green this time, gets used on the next line, detailing Irving's influential works. The insane level of OCD-ness occurring makes the blond roll his eyes.

Earlier burst of adrenaline long since drained, Gabriel slumps forward and drops his head onto his outstretched arms, groaning. Professor Shurley drones on and on and fucking _on_ about the most notorious Romantic authors, the monotonous — and quite frankly, impassive — speech turning a bland subject duller by the word. Somewhere between Shelley's _Frankenstein_ and Keat's _Bright Star_ , he finds himself staring at the back of his eyelids.

He's not sleeping. Really.

 **X X X**

His brain registers somebody calling his name in a soft whisper. Ugh, no. He grumbles at them to go away. The person says his name again, sharper, this time accompanied by a slight stinging sensation against his forehead. Cracking an eye open, he notices a collection of tiny bits of balled up notebook paper on his desk.

"Get up," Sam says, preparing to flick another piece at his face. "Pop quiz in five minutes," the taller man adds, catching the annoyed squint Gabriel gives him.

Of course.

God, how he doubts his ability to remain conscious long enough to write his name on the test. Much less concoct semi-coherent answers on whatever the hell the professor discussed while he zoned out.

Muttering darkly under his breath, he gropes around in his backpack for the energy drink, then eyes the half full black coffee. Lukewarm by now for sure.

"Fuck it," he decides, popping the top on the Monster and dumping it into the cup. After a brief hesitation, during which he wages a battle against eyelids that refuse to stay open, he pours in the energy shot as well. "Here's hoping I'm not about to subject myself to a caffeine-induced heart attack."

"Are you serious?"

"Cheers," Gabriel grumbles, toasting Sam's wide eyed expression before chugging down the disgusting mixture. Bitter, carbonated liquid with a hint of berry flavour attacks every last taste bud with a vengeance.

This better work.

 **X X X**

Okay, so maybe knocking back the equivalent of five cups of coffee in one go wasn't the world's smartest idea. Gabriel's never felt this _awake_ in his entire life.

Heart pounding against his chest like a double bass drum, foot tapping uncontrollably on the linoleum, he stares at the quiz on his desk with determination. Ignoring the super weird ringing noise in his ears, he attempts to read the first question, but the letters swim across the page until the print makes his head throb in aching protest.

At some point, he becomes aware of Sam mumbling out loud as he writes. Gabriel means to turn and demand ' _stop doing that_ ,' but the words stick in his throat as his gaze falls on the other man. The frown twisting Sam's mouth fills him with an intense, momentary desire to lean across the aisle and kiss the frustrated expression off his face, maybe brush his fingers through the dark hair to see if it feels as soft as it looks.

Which, dear god, not helping.

Annoyed at himself, he attacks the initial question with a renewed focus, scribbling down a sentence that he hopes comes at least somewhat close to the correct response. He makes it through three more open ended questions before the sounds of the classroom start distracting him. Pens scratching, pages turning, someone obnoxiously clearing their throat. He swears his attention span once outdid that of a goldfish.

And then the caffeine _really_ kicks in.

Resolve shattered, Gabriel closes his eyes for a moment, listens to the rapid whoosh of his very audible heartbeat. Breathing a bit too fast for comfort, stomach churning as though it's taking a ride on a Tilt-A-Whirl.

Oh, hell, he thinks he might puke. Probably not good, that.

"Whoa, hey, Sam. Is it normal to feel this dizzy?"

Sam replies with a snorting laugh, and yeah, thanks for the tearful display of concern. Love you too, man.

 **X X X**

Apparently, a full day and a half without sleep — last night's power nap so doesn't count — is enough to counter any amount of caffeine Gabriel dares to consume.

Fifteen minutes into the quiz, his brain shrugs at the stimulant and responds with a big fat ' _nope_.' Crashing from the energy high brings him to a much worse level of sleep deprivation.

Fighting the urge to sink to the floor and just pass the fuck out, he sighs at the pop quiz. Nothing on it makes a bit of sense. He hurries down the list of multiple choice questions, marking whichever answer jumps out at him first, and gives up on the short essay topic entirely. Not gonna happen. Besides, it isn't as if anyone actually cares about the major themes in popular works during the Romantic Movement.

Test as complete as it's going to get, he turns it in with a shrug at Professor Shurley's inquiring, sort of accusing glance. Like he knows Gabriel said to hell with it and picked a bunch of random answers. In his defence, one failing mark won't affect his GPA in a serious way; he can afford to take the hit. Dude should be ecstatic the majority of the thing actually got filled out after such a shitty morning.

Waving goodbye to Sam, he tosses the empty coffee cup in the trash and trudges back to the dorm. Each weary step brings him ever closer to glorious sleep, until finally, he's gazing at his bed with the longing adoration he generally reserves for a king size package of Skittles.

Dropping his backpack on a pile of dirty laundry, he throws up a silent prayer for the emptiness of the room. Luke stuck in class all day means he can collapse face first into bed and take a nap. Which he does, Converse still laced and everything.

Well, the collapsing part anyway, because he swears that the second he closes his eyes, someone sets off a round of freaking cannon fire.

"Gabriel," a voice calls from the hallway. Not the sounds of weaponry, then. Merely a giant laying siege to the door.

"Unlocked," he yells back, the word muffled against the mattress. When the door shuts, he flops over and pins the intruder with his best irritated expression.

"Dude, what the hell," Sam complains, unfazed by the glare. "I thought we were getting lunch today." Nose scrunched, he navigates a path around the mess of clothes, books and shoes littering the carpet on Gabriel's side of the room.

Closer to a minefield than a floor, really. Gabriel keeps meaning to clean it, honest, but he always seems to find far more pressing things to do. Like play back-to-back Call of Duty campaigns, or binge watch Netflix shows, or _anything_ else. Plus the clutter annoys Luke. Bonus.

"Time'sit?" he slurs.

"Almost noon," Sam says, which makes Gabriel groan and pull a pillow over his face. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can suffocate himself with it, thus solving the whole staying awake problem the world keeps presenting him with.

Clearly, the seventh circle of Hell isn't a place of eternal torment reserved for violent sinners; it's a special state of existence bestowed upon sleep deprived individuals who are in desperate need of rest. Dante got it all wrong.

"Come on," Sam wheedles. When that gets no response, he employs a different tactic. "I'll physically drag you out of here if I have to."

Scoffing, Gabriel jerks the pillow down to his chest and arches an eyebrow. He barely manages to swallow the ' _I'd like to see you try_ ' taunt that hits the tip of his tongue, because on second thought, no, he would not.

"Cuddle me, moose," he says instead, patting the space beside him.

"I — excuse me?"

"You heard me. I know how crushed you'll be without my witty observations before your philosophy class, but I'm too tired for food. Therefore, the only logical solution is to have you cuddle me. I get my nap and you still get to enjoy my winning company."

The silence that falls is awkward enough, but the way Sam stares at him — like he suddenly morphed into a Troig, complete with a hideous second head — leaves him cursing his faulty brain-to-mouth filter.

Maybe the overabundance of caffeine affected his mind or something.

"Your logic is incredibly flawed," Sam finally says, but he rolls his eyes and stretches out on the bed, which totally counts as a victory.

Soon, Gabriel begins drifting towards a light doze, distantly aware of the sounds of rapid tapping on a phone screen as Sam loses at Tetris, and the sensation of smooth strands of hair beneath his fingers. Content, he feels the last remaining wisps of awareness dissipate, and he settles in to hibernate until sometime next summer.

Only... Wait.

Gaze snapping to his hand, he stares at it in confusion, because he did not tell it to reach up and run itself through Sam's hair. Especially not in such a gentle way. Horrified, he snatches the offending appendage back, fully prepared to leap from the bed, stammer out an apology, and flee to the hallway, where he hopes the floor might open up to swallow him whole.

"You know," Sam says, preventing Gabriel's daring escape by wrapping long fingers around his wrist, "I might be reading this all wrong, but..."

Before he can process the words — although he does note the lack of panic, the amused tilt to Sam's mouth, and how ridiculously close his face is, and Gabriel so doesn't understand what's happening here — Sam closes the scant distance between them and kisses him. _Kisses_ him, in this brief, chaste press of lips which just isn't going to do at all.

Or it wouldn't, if he wasn't still totally hung up on the shock provided by the fact that Sam has his mouth on his. It takes his brain much too long to catch up to reality, until the brunette notices the hesitation and starts to pull away, one hell of a blank expression plastered across his face.

 _Do something, moron_ , Gabriel tells himself. Stop sitting here like some mentally vacant coma patient and fucking _do something_.

Gabriel surges forward, pressing Sam into the mattress and deepening the kiss. Sam makes a hum of noise, some odd cross of amusement and surprise, which edges into a soft moan when Gabriel sucks his bottom lip between his own and bites down.

Too much fabric separates them, and Gabriel grabs at the hem of his shirt, leans back to yank it over his head as Sam fumbles with the buttons on one of his ever-present plaid flannels. The last button snaps apart, exposing a delicious amount of smooth, tanned skin, and Gabriel's nerve endings catch fire. He takes in the sight of Sam lying beneath him, hair mussed from being gripped and eyes bright and lips reddened. Pinpricks of heat race through his veins, pooling deep in his stomach and making him so hard he aches with _wantdesireneed_.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this," Gabriel says, and he'll deny to his dying day that his voice went a little breathless at the end of that sentence.

Hands reach out to bring him close again, a tongue slipping inside his mouth in response, licking sweet and kind of dirty, and yeah, words are overrated right now anyway.

Minutes pass — weeks, eons — during which he memorises the almost spicy taste of Sam's kiss, traces the broad expanse of a muscled chest with trembling fingertips, swallows down the little gasps Sam makes when he rolls his hips just right. The friction is maddening, too little in that it has him wanting so much more, but at the same time, it's perfection and he doesn't want it to stop, not even for the briefest of moments.

"I could do this for hours," Gabriel says as Sam slides his hands down his sides. "Days, maybe."

"Thought you were tired," Sam jokes, all rough voice and warmth against his skin and fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and God, that alone almost makes him come undone completely.

"Shut up," Gabriel murmurs, and cuts off any potential reply with another kiss, feeling a grin spread across Sam's mouth.

Sleep can wait.

He's got more important things to do.

 **X X X**

If, later that week, Gabriel's got Sam shoved against a wall, teeth scraping his neck, hands grasping for every inch of bare skin he can touch when Luke unexpectedly bursts into the dorm, well... It's a better form of payback than anything he could have planned.


End file.
